Now that the gates are shut on all I cherished,
O wistful Love, I pray,
Blow no more haunting scents of roses perished,
About my lonely way.

Take from me memory of happy laughter,
Of kisses more than kind:
And that I may not meet his eyes hereafter,
I pray thee strike me blind.

Lest I should knock against the bars, and, bleeding,
Cry to him, faithless–'Come!'
The while he passes by, my grief unheeding,
I pray thee strike me dumb.

So it were best. And dumb and blind, forgetting,
White peace may wrap my soul;
Till, lorn of love and hate, and unregretting,
It passes to its goal.